


Elf of Erebor

by Lasgalendil



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, War in the North - Fandom
Genre: Bearded Dwarf Women, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Dwarf Women, Dwarf/Elf Relationship(s), Dwarven Politics, Dwarves, Dwarves In Exile, Elf Culture & Customs, Hair, Hair Braiding, Hair Kink, Interspecies, Interspecies Awkwardness, Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Romance, Interspecies Sex, M/M, Marriage, One True Pairing, Protective Siblings, Same-Sex Marriage, Sibling Bonding, Sibling Rivalry, Siblings, Stubborn Dwarves, True Love, Worried Dwarves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-25
Updated: 2015-06-25
Packaged: 2018-04-06 02:36:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4204800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elf loves Dwarf.<br/>Dwarf loves Elf.</p><p>…Not if Dwarf’s sister has anything to say about it! When Ása’s errant brother brings home his Elf husband after the War of the Ring, she is convinced her sisterly duties and her heritage mean she must break them apart. After all, it is a thing unheard of!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Elf of Erebor

We heard them coming.  
[We’d hear that quite a lot.]

The entire fucking Vale of Dale heard them coming. Bit hard not to.

That damned Elf started singing the moment they reached Esgaroth, and hasn’t stopped bloody singing since.

Oh, no.  
Oh, fuck.  
Oh, Mahal’s great cock. He did not.

Little brother, you DID NOT.

Down in Gondor, they call him ‘Elf-fucker.’ But the rumors, it seems for once, are true. My little brother returns from war, and he has brought his—his— _pet_. His fuck toy. His fair Elven Princess. He hasn’t even the decency to return by the strength of his Dwarvish feet, or by a wagon—the work of his hands. Oh, no. My brother has gone full Elf it seems. He returns riding a horse—a horse!

An Elf of Erebor? Durin save us! Not if this dwarrowdam has anything to say about it! “The rumors are true, then,” I sneer as they dismount that dratted beast. “You’ve brought home your Elf maid.”

“The rumors are false,” the Elf corrects me. “I am no maid. Gimli-nîn, who—?”

“Ása, meet Elf. Elf, meet, Ása. My sister.”

He nods and bow as one well-rehearsed. “At your service. And your family’s.”

“Oh, I don’t think any one else in my family requires your ‘services’, Elf.”

“No fighting,” my brother barks. “We’re all friends here!”

“I fear it is too late for that,” his Elf states. “I had thought we were family?”

“Yes. Well…” my brother coughs.

“And who is this?” Our mother demands, arriving huffing and puffing with sweat in her beard.

“This is…this is…(this is so embarrassing). Oh, sod it. You all bloody well know who this is!” my little brother reddens.

The Elf has no beard. But his hair—his long hair—is beaded and braided: a warrior’s plait, a journey’s tale, a skillful lover’s accent…and a wife’s beads.  
“You have no right,” I snarl. “You have no fucking right. Those are Dwarf braids, Dwarf beads!”

“Aye, and can a Dwarf not bead and braid his One?”

“This—this is most unusual,” my mother frowns.

“This is Elf,” my idiot brother grumbles. “I mean Legolas, damnit. Elf, this is…well.”

But the Elf doesn’t blink. “At your service, and your family’s.”

“A man?” My mother asks, taken aback.

“No, Amad. Even worse: An Elf!”

But my brother is clutching his slender hand, and the Elf looks from him to us. My brother’s beard, it must be said, has never been so combed or braided. “Very well,” my mother sighs. “Come here, child. Let me look at you.”

He prances forward, no effort at shyness, the brazen Elvish whore!

“…no beard whatsoever, slender as a twig, hands as soft as butter—you certainly won’t be bearing any sons with hips like that,” she says, and all the while my brother bristles silently. “Nonetheless, I see you have cared for my son. For that I thank you. Our home is your home…Elf." She sighs, "Now I suppose you’ll have to kneel.”

She means to braid him as a husband’s mother! “Amad, you can’t—!” I cry, while my brother calls “DON’T!”

“Silence, Ása! It is Mahal’s will! Now come, child, the gods did not see fit to make us all as tall—or comely—as you.”

“Amad—“

“Oh, hush you!” She retorts. “No letters, no word, not a sign you’re alive save for rumors then you show up here like this? With your One? I don’t know whether to kiss you or throw you over my knee!”

“Amad—“

“And then you expect me not to braid my own daughter-in-law—“

“Oh, hush!” she tells the now interrupting Elf. “—as if she—alright, HE—were some common whore?”

“Amad—“

“I don’t know which disappoints me more, Inûdoy! Just you wait until your father hears about this!”

…Mahal’s blessed beard. Adad. He’ll have words to say—and less welcoming.

But I know my brother. He means to interrupt again. “Amad—!”

“Not another word,” the Firebeard in her shows at last, “or Mahal’s Hammer _I will take you over my knee like the dwarrowling you were and beat your backside as red as that excuse for a beard!_ ”

My brother sighs. Pats those ridiculously pale, slender fingers. “Elf, we spoke of this.” A sudden slap on the princely ass later, and that thrice-damned Elf is kneeling in the dust before our mother looking for the first time like…like an Elf in a city of Dwarrows.

His hair is too fine. Too soft. It will never hold. My mother’s hands and eyes may be old, but she is yet skilled, and makes quick work of it even with this strange new substance. To the practiced, perhaps even the newest of forges or ores feel somewhat familiar. “Durin’s balls,” my brother fumes as the seven-stranded braid is finally formed. “It took me weeks to figure out how to—OOF!”

And my mother, who fought and tended the fallen at Azanulbizar, who took the Long Journey East, who defied the emissary of the Enemy, who slew Agandaûr* in single combat, has gathered him up in her arms and begins to wail and sob. “Not one letter! Not one!”

“Amad…”

“In all those months!”

“Amad…”

“—haven’t seen, heard word from you in over a year—“

“Amad…”

“—could’ve ripped out my beard—“

“Amad…”

“—could’ve at least sent words ahead, given us time to put together a bedchamber for you and your bride—“

Finally, my idiot brother embraces her as she cries into his beard. “…I missed you, too.”

The fucking Elf only peers at them, curiously. “Why is naneth crying?”

“She hates you. I hate you. Everyone Under the Mountain hates you.”

“See, _melleth-nîn_?” he laughs. “There is nothing to fear! Ása-muinthel is just like you when first we met! Come, _muinthel-nîn_!” my brother’s Elf calls, dancing after them admiring his new adornment. “Let us go and meet Glóin-ada as well!”

Mahal help me! The two of them, under our roof? Eating and drinking (and fucking!)? The Stonehelm, The True King Under the Mountain (may his beard be long, may his hammer be swift), and my Forebearers in the Smith’s Stone Halls will never let me hear the end of it!

* * *

 

 *Antagonist from War in the North. If you’re only going to invent one female OC in your whole video game to several male ones and populate that world with mainly male canon characters, you can bet the fanon is going to step in with every single female character they can find. Gimli’s mom didn’t "stay behind" on the the Quest for Erebor due to our society's outdated concept of binary gender roles, Glóin and her decided the best warrior ought to be alive to train their son as he’d be next in line for the throne if Fíli, Kíli, Dáin, Balin, and Dwalin were killed.

**Author's Note:**

> If the misogyny apologists/trolls return, please do NOT ENGAGE. Don't waste your emotional energy, I'll delete and block them.


End file.
